Sarah Concannon
by Harriet Vane
Summary: C.J. comforts Danny in a time of grief.


            C.J. walked into _Off the Hill Sports Bar_ and looked around.  She spotted Danny immediately.  He was sitting at the bar, looking worn ragged and slightly drunk, with a straight-up whisky in front of him.  

            She'd never considered Danny a drinker, although, he was a journalist so his present behavior wasn't really a surprise.  The surprise was that he'd left in the middle of a press conference discussing the President's response to a terrorist bombing in Afghanistan that killed two Americans working for the Red Cross.  It was a huge story and Danny was a dedicated journalist.  She couldn't imagine anything that could pull him away from that conference.  And, later that day, when Melody Turner from the Chicago Tribune told her she'd seen Danny at the bar, C.J.'s curiosity turned from an itch to, well, a bigger itch.  She had to know what was going on.

            "So," she asked crisply as she slipped into the stool next to him.  "This is the breaking news that pulled Daniel Concannon away from the White House during a press conference of international importance.  'Buy one pitcher of beer, get the second half off.'"

            Danny didn't turn his head to look at her.  His eyes were trained on his drink.  "My sister was murdered," he said flatly.  

            C.J.'s heart suddenly felt like a stone and her breath caught in her throat.  "Oh," she said softly, deeply regretting her earlier flippancy.  "God, Danny, I'm sorry."

            He nodded; accepting her apology for what it was worth, which they both knew was not a hell of a lot.

            "She was only twenty-six," he continued.  "Not my full sister– my dad's daughter, by second marriage.  But she was so, God . . ."

            C.J. placed her hand on his forearm supportively, and kept listening.

            "You know, I was there when she was born.  I was doing an internship at the New York Times and I flew in for Thanksgiving.  I got to the airport and waited for forty minutes before my uncle came and told me Sharon went into labor two days early." He took a shaky breath and wiped his eyes, even though C.J. hadn't noticed any tears.  "She was the prettiest baby ever, with little tuft of red hair and these huge gray eyes. When –when I'd come home for holidays she'd always want to play with me.  She'd sit me down and we'd play school.  I was covering the White House and she was teaching me my ABC's."  He laughed softly and the irony. "She loved teaching," he continued.  "It was her life.  Eighth grade English in inner city Detroit where they force the twelve-year-olds to go through mettle detectors to make sure they're not packing heat.  She cared so much about those kids."

            "Did one of them . . .?" C.J. asked tentatively.

            "It was a psycho ex-boyfriend or, something, I'm not really sure.  I heard his name when she was in college.  There was a thing where some of her mail was stolen and talk about a restraining order.  He must have been crazy, I mean, you know, medicated, 'cause the story is he went off the medication, found her, and then . . ."

            "I am so sorry," she said again, because she had no idea what else to say.

            "It was a murder suicide," Danny said, swallowing hard.  "And what I'm . . . what I can't figure out is if I'm glad the bastard's dead or not.  Part of me thinks it's easer this way."

            "And part of you thinks it's harder," C.J. said compassionately.

            "Twenty-six," he said, picking up the whisky in front of him.  "So damn pretty and brave, she was just, you know, she was good."

            "Yeah," C.J. said softly.  "I can tell."

            Danny nodded, sadly, before returning to his long neglected drink.  He grimaced, slightly, after he swallowed.  Very carefully, he set the glass back on the bar and then, with a deep breath, he turned to look C.J. straight in the eyes.  "Will you come to the funeral with me?"

            C.J. was taken aback, "I . . . ah . . ." she stammered.

            "I'd really, really like it if you'd come to the funeral with me," he pressed.  "Please."

            "I'll, um, I'll talk to the President," she finally managed to say.  "I imagine the White House could send some sort of representation . . ."

            "God, C.J.," Danny laughed harshly.  "White House representation at my sister's funeral?"  
            "Well, I know it's not customary," the press secretary said, trying to think quickly.  "But, even though you're are not staff, you are certainly part of –"

            "No!" Danny yelled.  "My sister is dead, C.J..  My baby sister was murdered.  And I'm not gonna have you debase her funeral by turning it into some kind of symbol or, or example to advance Bartlet's platform on gun control, or the treatment of the mentally ill, or affordability of prescription medication, because this isn't about that.  Those issues aren't even related to the story."

            "Tell me the story."

            "The story is that my sister is dead.  And politics will never change that, and will never stop psychopaths who don't take their medication from killing innocent, noble, school teachers.  No lofty words are ever gonna change that, even if they came from George Washington's lips, never mind Jed Bartlet's."

            "Danny," C.J. said, shaking her head.  "I don't know what –"

            "Come to the funeral with me," he asked again.  "Get drunk with me at the wake, hold my hand as they lower that coffin.  Please, C.J., I . . . please come."

            C.J. couldn't meet Danny's eyes as she felt the tears building up.  She took a shaky breath before looking at him and saying, "You know I can't do that."

            Danny turned quickly away from her, holding up his empty whisky glass and yelling "Hey," at the bartender.

            "I'm the White House Press Secretary," she explained as Danny paid very careful attention to how the bartender poured the drink.  "I can't be seen socializing with a member of the press.  You know that, we both know that.  It's unprofessional. It would be viewed as favoritism."

            "Aren't I your favorite?" Danny asked, still looking at his drink.

            "Danny," she said with a sigh.  "You're my friend, my dear friend, and I wish I could but I can't."

            "No cavorting with members of the press," Danny said, nodding.

            "I really am sorry."  
            "Well," he asked, turning towards her.  "What are you doing here, now?"

            "I care, about you," C.J. said earnestly.  "And I care about your sister because you loved her.  But this is like all those times where you had to be a journalist first, and friend second.  I am truly sorry, but this time I have to be a Press Secretary first, and a friend second."

            Danny nodded, clearly understanding.  "So we are our jobs, then.  'Come rain or sleet or dark of night,' or however the hell that goes.  I can't be a person and you can't be a person.  We're just press secretary and reporter.  That's all we are."

"I am so sorry," she said softly as a tear rolled down her cheek.  

"Yeah, well," Danny said, clearing his throat.  "I knew that'd be your answer.  I just -- I don't know -- I hoped it wouldn't."

C.J. nodded and took a deep breath.  "I really should go."

"Yeah, yeah, you really should," Danny nodded.  "What if Greg from the L.A. Times walked in here and saw us talking? He might think you were giving me an exclusive or something.  He'd get jealous."

"I'm sorry."

"That's about the twentieth time you've said that."

"I should go," she said, stepping away.

            "Go," Danny said, nodding, before turning back to his shot of whisky.

C.J took a few steps, before turning around. "Danny, you know my job, it can only last another four years, at best."

            He turned on his stool to look at her.  "I'll remember that," he said, nodding.  There was an unmistakable glint of anger in his eyes.  "That'll be a real comfort on Tuesday when I'm standing there, alone, as my baby sister is buried."

            C.J. wanted to apologize again but her chorus of 'I'm sorrys' was becoming monotonous.  So she just nodded, accepting his cutting remarks, then turned and left the bar.

*   *   *

            "Danny," C.J. said softly, reaching out and touching his shoulder.  He turned around quickly, surprised.

            "You came?"

            "I took a personal day," C.J. said.  "I'm sorry I couldn't make the wake, but I didn't get in last night until after eleven and I didn't know where it was and . . ."

            "And you came," Danny said, smiling.  It was an appropriately dreary February day in Michigan.  The ground was soft and wet from melted snow and the cloud cover heavy and depressing.  But C.J. Craig had come to his sister's funeral.

            "I'm late because your town has an Oak Street and an Oak Lane.  I was driving up and down Oak Lane for nearly an hour before I stopped to ask directions."

              Danny had no idea what to say.  He felt himself start to smile.

            "I'm afraid the roses are a little wilty.  The heater was blowing on them and so . . ."

            Danny followed C.J.'s gaze to the beautiful bouquet of white roses she was holding.  "They're wonderful," he managed to say.

            "The President sends his regards," she continued.  "Actually, everybody does, Leo, Josh, Toby, even Mrs. Landingham.   But I thought I should tell you that when I told the President about our conversation he was the one who insisted I go."

            "Well, I'm glad I voted for him."

            "You're going to find a potted Marigold on your desk when you get back.  He wanted me to bring you a bouquet of Marigolds, from him, because, apparently, they represent grief, but Margaret, quite correctly, pointed out that they don't make bouquets of Marigolds so . . ."     

She looked up from the roses and their eyes met.  "I wish I could have been there to hold your hand."

            "Piddling detail," he said, smiling at her.  "C.J. Cregg came.  That's the story."

The End


End file.
